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“That’s correct; I was quite old at the time.” Professor Binns confirmed the tale without a trace of hesitation, entirely unbothered by recounting his own death.
However…
The older students had neglected to tell Ian something important.
“Speaking of that, it is actually a matter of historical interest; perhaps I should explain in greater detail…” Professor Binns suddenly became animated, cutting the break short.
At last, Ian succumbed, slipping into a deep sleep, dreaming peacefully. When William finally nudged him awake, Michael was once again raising his large, ink-stained hand.
Still, he failed to land a solid blow, much to his disappointment.
“Time for dinner.”
The three of them yawned as they made their way to the Great Hall. The evening feast was as extravagant as always, though the selection remained largely the same; at this early stage in the term, however, it had yet to grow tiresome.
“So, what about the letter of introduction?”
William had been preoccupied with the idea of joining the club, and throughout dinner, he kept piling Ian’s plate with the best dishes.
He is as enthusiastic as ever.
Even the quick-handed Michael couldn’t snatch anything before him.
“I’ll write it when we get back!”
Ian handed his History of Magic homework to William, who took it without a word, slipping it into his bag as if it were second nature.
This child had potential.
“Heavens, Prince, I heard you killed the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?”
“I heard Professor Snape was taken out as well!”
“That’s brilliant— what’s next? A first-year single-handedly dueling the Dark Lord? I’ve read ridiculous tales before, but even those wouldn’t stretch the truth this far! Bet you anything this is another wild Gryffindor exaggeration!”
…
Back in the common room, the Ravenclaw students had already caught wind of the morning’s rumors, but naturally, no one here was foolish enough to believe them. Most dismissed it as just another overblown story spun by certain dramatists.
Thankfully, Gryffindor’s usual flair for theatrics had worked in Ian’s favor.
At least he wasn’t being ostracized or treated like a dangerous anomaly. The support from the two Prefects had likely played a significant role in that as well.
As the fire crackled in the hearth, Ian— just as he had promised the night before— resumed his little study session. Perhaps the invigorating standard boil potion had worked, as even a few second-year students decided to join in tonight.
“Today, we won’t be discussing potions. Once I gather the right materials, we’ll have a proper practical lesson. For now, I’ll share some useful Transfiguration techniques.”
Switching the focus of the lesson,
Some students hesitated, debating whether to stay.
Others, intrigued, leaned in to listen.
Ian watched them carefully but he made no comments.
After collecting his ‘tuition’ from the eager young wizards, he launched into a vivid and engaging explanation. Time slipped by, and, just like the night before, he was met with grateful murmurs and admiring gazes from his classmates.
When he finally returned to the dormitory and finished washing up,
Ian found William sitting by his bed, silently staring at him with pleading eyes. It took him only a moment to understand before he quickly scribbled out the recommendation letter.
Then, he studied for a while.
Once both his roommates had drifted into deep sleep, Ian reached into his trunk, pulling out the box he had retrieved from the Room of Requirement. Alongside it, he took out the two boxes of Chocolate Frogs he had received over the past two days and tucked them under his blanket.
Even though he had napped in the afternoon, sleep came easily to Ian.
Before long, he slipped back into that peculiar, shadowed place between dreams and reality.
The night deepened.
And some stories were still unfolding.
…
The pale winter sun hung low in the sky.
Desolate. Silent.
As if all life had long since vanished.
‘Rustle, Rustle, Rustle~’
Black waves crashed against the empty shore, the gray sand darkening and lightening with each retreating tide. Ian opened his eyes upon an island that seemed forgotten by time itself.
“Brilliant! A new map!”
As far as the eye could see, an endless expanse of ink-dark water stretched before him, shimmering ominously beneath the cold morning light— like the surface of an abyss flickering in and out of existence.
The tide churned against the shore, each wave cresting with a low, eerie hum, churning up thick layers of black foam before swallowing them back into the depths.
Not a bird chirped. Not a single gull circled the sky. The sea was neither blue nor green but unfathomably black, like spilled ink soaking into the world itself.
Clearly, this was not Ariana’s cozy village, nor was it Professor Mara’s gloomy castle. This was an entirely new part of the Twilight Realm— one Ian had never set foot in before.
It was mysterious and unsettling.
‘Who was imprisoned here? And why did the air feel thick with something unseen yet oppressive?’
“Professor Mara said the Twilight Realm responds to my desires, but I wasn’t looking for anything new today. All I wanted was to take noseless Riddle home.”
Tucking a small box under his arm and gripping two boxes of Chocolate Frogs, Ian surveyed the bleak island. Not far off stood a lone wooden cabin, its silhouette stark against the dreary backdrop.
“Could it be that, because I brought a piece of Riddle’s Horcrux, the Twilight Realm led me straight to his personal oubliette?” Ian mused, making his way toward the cabin.
The structure of the cabin was crudely built, its logs weathered and worn by the passage of time. Dried vines draped over the small windows, obscuring whatever lay within.
A forsaken island… or Riddle’s personal purgatory?
“Makes sense. Here, he’d have no one to gloat to— no admirers, no audience. Not even an ant to terrorize. If this were truly his prison, he’d go mad. Even his beloved ‘Avada Kedavra’ would be useless here, unless he fancied trying it on himself.”
Ian reached for the door, eager to glimpse inside.
And then, quite suddenly—
“Huh?”
The moment he raised his hand, the space around him warped. His vision twisted.
The cabin door… receded.
Though Ian was standing right before it, the distance between his outstretched fingers and the door stretched impossibly far, as if the space itself was unraveling like a moving tapestry.
It was like peering into a distorted mirror, a shifting kaleidoscope of reality.
The dizziness was almost unbearable.
Yet, the moment he lowered his hand—
Everything returned to normal.
The cabin stood precisely where it had before. The island remained eerily silent.
“Weird. I didn’t even blink, but it felt like the scene… skipped.” Ian muttered. He tried again. And again. But each time, the same thing happened— the door danced just out of reach.
Frustrated, he threw caution to the wind and lunged forward.
‘Splat!’
And splashed face-first into the damp, gray-brown soil. The musty scent of the earth filled his nostrils.
“Ugh— pah!”
Spitting out the sand from his mouth, Ian lifted his head.
The cabin was still there. But… had it ‘moved’?
“What, am I locked out because I’m not Tom Riddle?” Ian groaned, flopping onto the ground in defeat.
This trip might just end with him waiting here until the Realm spat him back out. The ink-dark sea was far too ominous to consider a swim— otherwise, he might have tried.
“I regret not bringing a fishing rod.” Not that he expected fish in water that looked like liquid shadow, but it would’ve been more entertaining than playing with sand.
Then—
“Little one, calling my home a prison is rather rude of you.”
The door creaked open and a woman stood in the doorway, her long, silvery hair cascading like a river of moonlight. Her robes, though simple, carried an air of quiet elegance.
She gazed at Ian with a faint trace of amusement, her voice smooth as flowing water.
“You couldn’t reach my cabin because I wasn’t waiting for you… that’s all.”
Her beauty was striking.
Yet, it was not beauty alone that set her apart— it was presence.
She stood like a beacon against the bleak world, radiant and unknowable.
“Madam, have you had breakfast?” Ian asked, still seated on the ground. He hesitated for only a moment before raising the two boxes of Chocolate Frogs.
They had originally been gifts for Ariana and Pandero, but considering the situation… well, adapting to circumstances was a valuable skill, wasn’t it?
Besides, he ‘had’ trespassed onto her land.
“A gift?” The woman’s lips curved into a knowing smile.
“Now it is.” Ian nodded firmly.
“Rash. Clever. Quick to adjust.” She chuckled softly, taking the Chocolate Frogs from his hands. “Interesting qualities.”
“The Sorting Hat said I have the traits of all four Houses,” Ian admitted with a sheepish grin, brushing the dirt off his robes. “Something about being the natural heir to Hogwarts itself. Makes me a bit… misunderstood.”
But the moment he saw her, Ian ‘knew’ exactly whose domain he had wandered into.
‘Rowena Ravenclaw.’
One of the four founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the founder of Ravenclaw House. She lived in the early Middle Ages, and her wisdom and creativity made her one of the greatest witches of her time.
Ian had passed by the statue of the House founder in the Ravenclaw common room countless times, so her appearance and demeanor were already deeply ingrained in his mind.
If Ian couldn’t recognize her, one might suspect that the sculptor responsible for carving the founders’ statues had been under the influence of a befuddlement charm.
“If you require a binding agreement, you’d be better off consulting Salazar.” As if curious about the modern treat, Rowena Ravenclaw opened one of the Chocolate Frog boxes. The enchanted Chocolate Frog inside hadn’t even had the chance to jump before she deftly caught it by its thick neck.
The card inside the box tumbled to the ground.
As if by fate’s design.
It was a card depicting Rowena Ravenclaw herself, though the artist’s skill left much to be desired, for the portrait on the card paled in comparison to the real person standing before Ian.
“A formal contract isn’t necessary, but my uncle is the Head of Slytherin House, so perhaps I should pay my respects to the ancestors. Didn’t the Slytherin professor choose to live near you?” Ian was ever adept at drawing connections. He was curious about the current state of the four founders in the Twilight Zone.
“You are my third visitor. Godric and Helga have already moved on, while I remain… I have an apology long overdue.”
Rowena Ravenclaw did not answer directly. She gently stroked the Chocolate Frog, which had been motionless, and it suddenly kicked its legs again, as if granted new life.
“Perhaps I can assist you?” Ian leaned in curiously as he watched Rowena place the Chocolate Frog onto the gray-brown soil.
It did not merely hop once upon being unboxed; now, seemingly imbued with something more, it brought a flicker of life to the desolate island.
“Ribbit, ribbit~”
The Chocolate Frog even croaked.
“Every request comes with a price. What will you require in exchange for your help, little one?” Rowena Ravenclaw crouched down, tilting her head as she regarded Ian with amusement.
“Of course, there’s no need for a price. It would be an honor to assist you. You may not know this, but the Sorting Hat almost placed me in another House. In the end, it felt I resembled you just a bit more.” Ian sought to build a connection, patting the back of his robes to reveal the Ravenclaw crest.
“I do not share your shamelessness.” Rowena Ravenclaw maintained a lighthearted demeanor, clearly having already noted his House.
Some traditions, it seemed, had endured the passage of a thousand years.
“Are you waiting for the Grey Lady? She’s a kind girl, though a bit hesitant.” Ian spoke warmly of Rowena Ravenclaw’s daughter.
He had realized whom the founder was waiting for.
‘Helena Ravenclaw.’
Among Hogwarts students, she was known as the Grey Lady.
Proud, reserved, and somewhat timid, she was deeply concerned with appearances yet possessed a kind heart. Long ago, she had stolen Rowena’s Diadem in a misguided attempt to surpass her mother’s wisdom.
The ailing Rowena Ravenclaw had longed to see her one last time, but Helena’s pride and fear had prevented her from fulfilling that wish, leaving an unhealed wound between them.
“I know she chose to remain as a ghost, but I did not expect her to still avoid me.” Rowena Ravenclaw’s voice carried a touch of sorrow.
Rebellious daughters had been a source of heartbreak for centuries.
In recent times, Helena had been deceived by Voldemort, who sought the Diadem for his own dark ambitions— proof that Rowena’s concerns had been well founded.
“Perhaps she fears facing you. To her, you have always been a formidable mother, and that perception only grows stronger with time.” Ian spoke gently. He could not fathom the weight of a thousand years of waiting, but he understood the complexity of the bond between mother and daughter.
“You know my child well?” Rowena Ravenclaw did not respond to Ian’s words of comfort. She lifted her gaze to the sky. “If Hogwarts remains unchanged, and my observations are correct, you must be a young wizard who has only recently begun his studies?”
It was unclear how she observed time’s passage within the Twilight Zone. Ian, too, glanced upward but saw nothing unusual in the sky.
Only a single sun.
“To be honest, I rather enjoy speaking with people. The Grey Lady helped me keep an eye on Peeves’ antics just yesterday. I had intended to show her your Diadem once I repaired it.” Ian spoke plainly.
“The Diadem is damaged? And once you mend it, do you not plan to return it to her?” Rowena Ravenclaw’s gaze flickered toward the box Ian had dropped— both the Chocolate Frog and the box containing the Diadem had fallen when he stumbled.
Now, though the box remained unopened, Rowena Ravenclaw needed no confirmation to know that her long-lost heirloom lay within.
“Isn’t it enough for her to simply see it? She has… already passed on.” Ian blinked, his response drawing a small, knowing smile from Rowena Ravenclaw.
“Do you seek wisdom from it?” Rowena Ravenclaw stepped toward the fallen box.
“Gaining wisdom isn’t what matters most to me. What I truly value is what it represents. It belongs to Ravenclaw House— it is the legacy you left for us.” Ian shook his head as he spoke, his voice firm with conviction.
However, Rowena Ravenclaw, having picked up the box, regarded Ian with knowing eyes, a small, amused smile playing on her lips, as if she could see straight through him.
“I would rather hear the truth,” She said calmly.
Ian hesitated, his gaze skirting away from hers.
“Then… just consider that I want to gain wisdom from it,” He admitted, his voice dropping slightly, sounding far less certain in the presence of the Ravenclaw founder herself.
He couldn’t help it.
This was Rowena Ravenclaw.
The embodiment of intellect.
No one had ever questioned whether Ravenclaw’s Diadem could bestow wisdom— that alone spoke to the towering reputation of its creator.
“That is still not the truth.” Rowena shook her head slightly. “Many have sought my Diadem to gain its wisdom, but I suspect you are not one of them.”
She let out a soft sigh before continuing, “The Diadem draws only two kinds of people to me: those of my own bloodline and those who seek the truth I once longed to understand.”
With that, she opened the box.
Her fingers brushed against the worn surface of the Diadem as she lifted it out.
“There is a dark presence within—”
Ian started to warn her, but before he could finish, Rowena Ravenclaw extended her other hand and, with startling ease, plucked out a twisting, writhing entity of black mist.
It seethed and contorted, but she held it as effortlessly as one might grasp a tangle of cobwebs. The swirling darkness writhed, and within it, furious, malformed faces flickered, their expressions contorted with rage and despair.
“Let me go! You wretched insect! How dare you lay hands on my Horcrux! I am the great Dark Lord! I will destroy you all! No one can stop my return!” Voldemort’s fragmented soul shrieked, its voice cutting through the air like a jagged blade. Ian instinctively raised his hands to cover his ears.
“Anyone who calls themselves a ‘Dark Lord’ is a fool. What self-respecting sorcerer announces their villainy like that?” Ian muttered, eyeing the wailing shade with disdain.
He had originally brought the Horcrux into the Twilight Realm, intending to let Professor Mara deal with it. Now, however, it seemed fate had placed it directly in the hands of Rowena Ravenclaw herself.
“Tsk, tsk, Herpo’s foolishness has certainly left a long shadow.” Rowena clicked her tongue, then, with an almost absentminded gesture, pinched the mist’s amorphous mouth shut. The shrieks cut off abruptly, and silence returned.
“And who is this one?” She asked, holding the now-silent specter aloft, eyeing it with the same curiosity one might give a particularly annoying pest.
“Tom Riddle. Calls himself Voldemort. Current scourge of the wizarding world. He introduced himself, you just weren’t interested enough to listen,” Ian replied, watching the scene with fascination.
A sudden thought struck him— who was more powerful, the enigmatic Professor Mara or the legendary Rowena Ravenclaw?
It had to be Rowena.
After all, she was one of Hogwarts’ four founders.
“This thing calls itself a Dark Lord? I assumed it was a mere trickster trying to frighten me.” Rowena scoffed, scrutinizing the mass of darkness in her grasp. “In our time, no sorcerer would be fool enough to place faith in something as flawed as a Horcrux.”
With an air of disdain, she tossed Voldemort’s fragmented soul to the ground.
Her expression betrayed no sorrow.
Only mild disappointment.
“The world is regressing. It’s quite sad, really,” Ian mused, watching the now-pathetic wraith floundering at their feet.
Voldemort, in the Twilight Realm, had been reduced to a mere head enveloped in shifting black mist.
The grotesque face, its mouth still sealed, glared up at Ian with seething hatred. The tendrils of darkness behind it could no longer take form, leaving it rolling about like some discarded ball of smoke.
“He’s glaring at me. He’s definitely cursing you,” Ian noted, stepping forward and planting his boot directly onto the misty face.
Where Voldemort’s nose had once been—
It was flattened in an instant.
“Oh, Tom, you really are a nuisance. I drag you along on a grand adventure, and you don’t even show a bit of gratitude. Didn’t even charge you a fare, and I doubt your other Horcruxes would’ve chipped in for the ride.”
Ian gave Voldemort’s head a sharp kick, sending it rolling across the ground like a wayward Quaffle.
“Kick him into the Black Sea,” Rowena suggested, inspecting her damaged Diadem with an air of quiet reflection. There was no sorrow in her face.
Just a trace of regret.
“Where would that take him?” Ian asked, pausing mid-kick to glance at the endless, ink-dark waters beyond the island.
“Wherever Herpo is. A place where no light reaches, no future awaits. That is the fate of a Horcrux.” Rowena spoke as if she had long known the answer.
“Sounds tragic, but… I don’t think it’s tragic enough,” Ian remarked, eyeing the floundering wraith at his feet.
If Voldemort still had hands, he would undoubtedly be cursing Ian with every fiber of his being. And, most likely, attempting to cast Avada Kedavra at him a dozen— no, twenty— times over.
The man did have a peculiar fondness for that curse.
“Not tragic enough?” Rowena raised a brow, looking Ian up and down.
Ian nodded solemnly.
“I’ve been playing with him for ages, and he’s still glaring at me.”
His voice carried a note of profound disappointment.
Rowena Ravenclaw remained silent for a long while, her expression unreadable.
“Are you certain you’re not lying to me? This wretched thing is truly the Dark Lord who has brought ruin upon the world?” There was something almost amused in her tone, as if she found the notion difficult to believe.
“Your wisdom is unparalleled— surely you can see the evil in him?” Ian lifted Voldemort’s severed head, tugging experimentally at the dark mist that swirled beneath it.
It was strangely viscous.
And yet, solid enough to grasp.
Rowena Ravenclaw studied his actions, offering no immediate response.
“Oh, that reminds me— there’s something else I ought to inform you of,” Ian continued, his voice gaining momentum. “This so-called Dark Lord deceived your daughter, preyed upon her grief, and used your Diadem to forge a Horcrux.”
“The loss of the Diadem is of little consequence; I can bear that. But his manipulation of my daughter…”
Rowena Ravenclaw’s voice remained eerily calm, but an icy edge crept into her words.
“He deceived the Grey Lady, made a mockery of her trust, and because of it, she has wandered the halls of Hogwarts in sorrow for centuries.” Ian spoke with the righteous fervor of an informant delivering a damning report. “I suspect her refusal to enter the Twilight Zone stems from this very betrayal. She believes she has no right to face you.”
After all, what harm could a young wizard cause?
He simply enjoyed setting the record straight.
Rowena Ravenclaw’s expression remained unchanged.
She lifted a hand.
A swirl of enchanted sand rose from the ground, forming shifting images in the air— layer upon layer of memory unfolding before Ian’s eyes, as though revealing hidden truths long buried by time.
“If you had read your textbooks before term began, you would be familiar with the story of the Quintaped,” she remarked. “It is proof that transfiguration— when applied to the soul— holds untapped potential for deeper exploration.”
She turned toward the cabin, the Diadem still in her grasp.
“You have time yet— so learn, little raven.” Her words carried a cryptic weight, like a riddle waiting to be solved.
Ian hesitated.
“You’re leaving the Diadem here?”
It was a shame, really. But in the end, it was returning to its rightful owner.
“Indeed,” She confirmed. “Without this key, the next time you wish to find me, you will have to cross beyond your own realm— fly across the black sea that divides all things.”
Her words stirred something in him.
My own realm?
Ian frowned slightly.
“Fly?”
The idea perplexed him.
“Transform into a raven… surely you can manage that. If you can fly to me, I will restore the Diadem and remake it into the crown it was always meant to be.”
With that,
The cabin door shut.
And on the desolate island,
Only Ian remained, standing in the wind— his foot still planted on Voldemort’s head.
The Dark Lord’s tattered soul was smeared with dirt, a pitiful remnant of what was once feared.
Above them, the images conjured from the enchanted sand continued their silent, unrelenting lesson.
[You have observed the origins of transformation— Transfiguration proficiency +16]
[You have observed the origins of transformation— Transfiguration proficiency +32]
[You have observed the origins of transformation— Transfiguration proficiency +11]
…
A flood of knowledge poured into him.
As Ian gazed at the shifting sand, he felt as though he were witnessing magic at its dawn— watching the first wizards kindle flame from nothing, grasping at the very essence of creation itself.
It was Wisdom.
Not merely learned, but absorbed in a way he had never known before.
“You’re not allowed to look. This is for me,” Ian muttered absently, stomping Voldemort’s face deeper into the mud as he remained immersed in his revelations.
Time slipped by.
Whether it was fast or slow, it was impossible to tell.
It was only a feeling— measured not by the ticking of clocks but by the depth of understanding he gained.
[Transfiguration (Level 5) 32/1600]
Through this long-lost inheritance, a skill Ian had painstakingly nurtured was now being refined, shaped into something greater.
[Congratulations! Your skill has surpassed Level 5, and you have acquired an Extraordinary Trait.]
The notification scrolled across his vision.
A new ability had emerged.
[Shaping All Things]
As the name implied—
It granted him the power to apply transfiguration to anything, be it object, soul, or even life itself. More importantly, it allowed him to circumvent the fundamental restrictions imposed by Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration.
“Save for the one unbreakable law— creation from nothing— the rest are meaningless to me now,” Ian murmured, flexing his fingers as though testing the sensation of raw possibility at his fingertips.
There was just one problem.
For some reason, he had not been able to bring his wand into this world.
And he had yet to discover why.
But he didn’t need a wand to manipulate a soul’s form.
“My own gift allows me to shape souls with my bare hands…” Ian murmured, lifting Voldemort’s fractured spirit from the ground. Now, with his newfound mastery, it was time to experiment.
“This is by Lady Ravenclaw’s decree— so blame your own villainy for this.” Ian toyed with the pitiful wraith, which could no longer speak, kneading and twisting it at will.
The magic of concept and intent took hold.
Voldemort’s essence warped beneath his touch.
Yet.
It was powerless to resist.
Even the slitted red eyes, once burning with hatred, were soon covered over— muffled, reshaped. Moments later, Ian placed his creation onto the ground: a grotesque little creature, its slimy form unmistakably bearing a noseless Riddle-like face.
It wriggled.
It tried, fruitlessly, to flee his grasp.
“Ribbit, ribbit~”
From nearby, the enchanted Chocolate Frog— imbued with Rowena Ravenclaw’s ancient magic— took notice of the new abomination.
With relentless enthusiasm, it gave chase.
It had no tongue so it could not devour the wriggling Snot Bug,
But that didn’t stop the frog’s instincts from compelling it forward. The creature that had once been Voldemort scrambled in frantic desperation, twisting and squirming, desperate to escape its relentless pursuer.
“From now on, you shall be called Spike.”
Ian named the Chocolate Frog with amusement, watching the absurd chaos unfold.
He turned his gaze toward the cabin.
The door had long since closed.
The windows, too, were obscured, veiling whatever mysteries lay within.
“Thank you for your guidance.” Ian gave a small bow and his form began to fade from the Twilight Zone.
Unbeknownst to him, beyond the misted window, Rowena Ravenclaw stood in quiet observation. She did not move, not until he had disappeared from this lonely island that had remained untouched by visitors for countless years.
“An unexpected surprise. The little raven who once sought knowledge in my halls has truly woven a miracle. And now, fate has brought him back to me once more.”
Rowena Ravenclaw whispered, her thoughts drifting back through the ages.
The end of all mortal life is death. Yet, before death arrives, wizards find countless ways to delay or defy it.
Still.
Only the truly wise understand—
All such efforts are mere illusions of control.
Death may be postponed, but it will always find its way to your doorstep. And when that final moment comes, a wizard is left with their last and greatest choice.
Rowena Ravenclaw stepped forward.
As she did, a great raven, bound by an ancient pact, arrived as promised. It carried her across mountains, through unseen lands, and over the black sea that divides the living from the dead.
This was a long-awaited reunion.
It answered old questions.
And birthed new ones.
“Was this contract, woven across centuries, meant for the present… or for what is yet to come?”
Rowena Ravenclaw turned her gaze to the worn and tarnished Diadem at her side.
“I have unraveled much… yet I have not fully grasped fate.”
She reached for a new Chocolate Frog, breaking open the packet with an unreadable expression.
Slowly, she pulled out the card within.
The figure on it moved, shifting within the enchanted frame.
“In a thousand years among mortals… where has fate led you?” Rowena Ravenclaw’s lips pressed into a knowing smile.
She was unsurprised by the image before her.
On the card, a man clad in black robes stood with his arms crossed, with an arrogant smirk curving his lips.
Salazar Slytherin.
Laughing freely.
“I wish you were indifferent to us. And I hope you don’t act foolishly… my friend, Salazar.”
(End of this chapter)
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